


Outlaws and Outsiders

by thedi_WRECK_tor



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Eye Trauma, Found Family Dynamics, Micah is an asshole, Mild Gore, Mouth Sewn Shut, Multi, Some changing POV, Sort Of, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Violence, kieran duffy deserved better, really they all deserved better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedi_WRECK_tor/pseuds/thedi_WRECK_tor
Summary: He hadn’t recognized Kieran when Dutch had first pointed him out. Hadn’t connected the gruesome sight with the quiet, anxious little slip of a man until Mary-Beth had screamed. Though, to be fair, he’d been up on the second story of the house, and there hadn’t been much of Kierantorecognize. Under the blood, his face looked like a dried up bowl of Pearson’s worst stew. The blue jacket and poncy little necktie he’d worn had been gone, and the white shirt beneath had been stained red with blood. And, of course, he hadn’t ridden back into camp on his beloved Branwen. Nothing about the…thingatop the strange horse was recognizable as Kieran.
Comments: 32
Kudos: 73





	1. Horsemen, Apocalypses REDUX

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway I started playing this god damn game and now I'm hooked. All the characters except Micah deserved better, so here is my shoddy attempt to make it so. The AU timeline starts with Sean surviving the shot to the head, with him having part of his face basically blasted off but still surviving, and the story starts in the middle of Horsemen, Apocalypses. This is going to be Kieran and Arthur centric, with a few character-specific chapters thrown in. There will also be some changing perspective as a result. I'm still in the process of writing this fic at the time of posting the first chapter. However, I have 6 chapters done, and am hoping that by staggering the chapters to post ever 2 weeks, I'll have ample time to finish the rest of the fic before we get to chapter 6. 
> 
> One major note, Micah Bell is in this fic, and I hate him. If you like Micah Bell, this fic isn't for you. 
> 
> Second major note, Micah (and other NPCs) use slurs in this game. I don't know the best way to handle that? The best way I came up with was to censor it. I don't know how people feel about that, but I'm trying to be as inoffensive as possible while keeping true to the character, who is an unrepentant piece of shit. 
> 
> Third major note, tags will be updated as necessary.

There’s no more pain, and he supposed he should be grateful for that.

It’s almost as though his body up and said “This is a lot of bullshit to deal with at the moment. I’m gonna go ahead and take a nap while you sort everything out.”

It didn’t matter, because he’d be dead soon anyway; he wouldn’t have to be around for the inevitable return of the pain. Another thing to be grateful for, really. He’d bleed out, or he’d fall off the horse and break his neck. Or, infinitely worse, a predator would be attracted by the smell of gore surely rolling off what was left of his mortal coil, attack the horse (a possibility which distressed him far more than his own looming demise) and then decide that the still-breathing-but-barely Kieran was a much more attractive meal since he couldn’t run away. 

However it was going to happen, he would be dead soon, and he _was_ grateful for that.

He’d lost track of time, because it was an insignificant detail when his entire body was numb and his head was too full of fuzz to concentrate anyway. Instead, he spent his time wondering about the horse beneath his thighs; he wondered what its name was, what breed it was. He wondered how soft its mane would be if he ran his fingers through it. He wondered if it preferred sugar cubes or peppermints, carrots or apples. He wondered when the last time someone had given it a full brush-down, or had cared for its hooves, or a million other little chores that made for a happy, healthy horse. 

So, there was no way of knowing how long it had been between when Colm had scooped out his left eye with a silver spoon, and now, when he heard a woman scream in horror somewhere nearby. “It’s _Kieran_!” Mary-Beth, he realized with a pang of guilt, was the one screaming. Mary-Beth, who had always been kind and gentle with him, even back when he was tied to the tree; who had brought him water when he was so desperately thirsty he thought he might turn to dust and blow away on the wind; who had offered to teach him how to read, using those silly books she and the other women pretended not to read so the menfolk wouldn’t make fun of them. He had scared her with his undoubtedly sickening appearance, and above all else, he felt terribly guilty about that. 

He felt a sharp pain in his mouth and let out a quiet, wheezing moan, realizing in a detached sort of manner that he had been trying to apologize to her. He wanted to laugh at himself, at his instinctive drive to start stammering apologies, but he couldn’t very well do that, now could he? Not with his mouth-

“Everybody take cover!” 

That was Dutch, somewhere further than Mary-Beth but close enough still that Kieran could hear the alarm in his voice. Something rose up in Kieran, some spark of life that he was shocked could still exist when he was in this state: he needed to tell Dutch, needed to warn him-

Then the first shots rang out, the horse bucked, he fell to the side, and then he knew no more.

\-----

“Poor kid.”

Kieran tried to open his eyes. There were no more gunshots, and Dutch’s voice was much closer than before. There was another sharp pain around his mouth as he tried to open it, trying to speak.

He needed to warn Dutch, had to tell him about-

“-take this boy and bury him near, but not too near.”

“Of course. Charles, help me with the body.”

The body… was there a body? Who had died? He wondered, fleetingly, if it had been Mary-Beth, and felt another pang of wretched guilt.

“We need to get this place cleaned up.” Oh, Hosea. Right next to him. Kieran tried to move, to get Hosea’s attention. He was Dutch’s right-hand man, he would know what to do, would get the information to- Suddenly someone was touching him. Terror flooded through his entire body as he was lifted into the air while Hosea called for Mr. Pearson and Mrs Grimshaw, calling them to action, his voice moving farther away. Or maybe it was Kieran…

_Help me move the body._

Oh, he was the body. But he wasn’t dead yet! He tried to open his eyes, to raise his arm, to get anyone’s attention, but his body was unresponsive. He couldn’t so much as wiggle his fingers. 

They were going to bury him. They were going to bury him, but he was still alive! And he had to tell Dutch-!

Pain flared around his mouth, worse than before, and somewhere down near his numb feet, the Reverend took the Lord’s name in vain. “He’s still alive!”

Was he? If so, why did it suddenly sound like he was underwater… why did he suddenly feel so heavy…

… Why was he suddenly bouncing around on some hard surface, surrounded by the sound of pounding hooves and creaking wood?

“-at least another twenty minutes from Saint Denis.” Who was that? Was that Arthur, or maybe John? When they got worked up like the owner of the voice currently was, sometimes it was hard to tell apart. “He still breathin’?”

Hands touched his face and he flinched. _Oh god, no, please, don’t-!_ “I don’t know how, but yes.” Reverend Swanson again. It was the Reverend touching him, he realized, checking to see if he was still drawing breath. And Kieran had to agree, how on God’s green earth _was_ he still breathing? “Arthur, I don’t know if the surgeon-”

“We gotta try.” So it was Arthur, then. “We gotta know what he said to them, what they know.”

“Pretty stupid of them to let the little worm live.”

Micah.

Suddenly he felt wet, and warm. Swanson cursed again right next to him, and his hands left Kieran’s face, but he couldn’t focus on what Swanson was saying.

Micah was near. Micah was somewhere nearby, Micah was-

“Dutch is always saying that thing about shootin’ fellers as need shootin’, and I think this boy is beyond savin’.” He heard the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked and felt his body tremble. “Maybe we oughta just put him outta his misery-”

“I said no, Micah!” Arthur snarled, in the same terrifying growl he had used on Kieran all those months ago when he’d been their hostage. That growl that warned of certain, impending pain if the recipient didn’t fall into step. “Put yer damn gun away, and keep yer ‘pinions to yerself. You point yer gun at that boy one more time-”

“And what are you gonna do, cowpoke?” There was laughter in Micah’s voice, and it was cold and humorless and made Kieran wheeze with fear. “You gonna shoot me? That’d be a fine thing to report back to Dutch, now wouldn’t it?”

“Shut up, Micah!” Charles. Charles had never been kind to him, but had never been cruel, either. He’d watched over Kieran when he’d been a hostage, had interrogated him, but had never hurt him. He’d even given Kieran water when he was beyond endurance, though it had been in the name of preservation, not kindness. Still, he was so much safer than Micah, and if Kieran could just-

“Hold on, son.” Reverend Swanson was touching his face again, one hand cupping his cheek. He spoke low, under the argument occurring somewhere above them. “We’re almost-”

\---

“-coward pissed himself, I ain’t takin’ his legs-”

“Outta the damn way then!” 

Oh, he’d passed out again. The soft surface upon which he was laying no longer rocked, but there were new, strange sounds all around him. Hands were slipping under his armpits, and more hands were pulling his broken legs, but he was still so beyond pain it was merely uncomfortable instead of agonizing. He was shuffled, fumbled, and lifted down, and finally he was hanging from two sets of hands once more as they quick-stepped over what sounded like stone. A door opened, a man swore.

“Quickly, bring him back here. What happened?”

“Night Folk got’im.” Arthur lied so easily, Kieran had to admire him for it.

“Good gracious.” Kieran was lifted and deposited onto another flat surface, this one hard and unyielding. “How did you find him?”

“Heard someone hollering for help out by the road.” Charles picked up the lie with a grace that Kieran also had to admire. “He was tied up to a tree, they were trying to ambush us.”

Oh no… more hands were touching him, examining him. He heard himself make a gurgling sort of sound. He didn’t want to be touched, didn’t want-

“-amazing he’s still alive. You gentlemen will have to step outside to give us room to work.”

No.

No!

No!

Kieran’s arm shot out, driven by some force of nature, for he certainly didn’t have the strength to do it himself. He grabbed blinding for someone, anyone. His hand bumped another’s, then his fingers scrabbled weakly for their wrist as he tried, tried so hard to speak through the stitches holding his mouth shut-

Leather-clad fingers pulled his free, and set his hand back on the hard surface. “It’s okay Kieran, we ain’ goin’ anywhere.”

_But you have to tell Dutch…_

_You have to tell Dutch about what he did..._


	2. A Ghastly Apparition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kieran's alive, barely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, holy shit. I did not expect like... even half the response I got on this fic. Thank you! As an update, I now have 11 chapters done, and have the endgame planned out.
> 
> Content warning for this chapter includes graphic depiction of injuries inflicted during torture.
> 
> Edit: i almost forgot to thank my amazing beta reader, nerdy-waistoid on tumblr. she puts up with a lot of poor grammar and rambling thoughts with me and i would not have gotten so far without her!

He hadn’t recognized Kieran when Dutch had first pointed him out. Hadn’t connected the gruesome sight with the quiet, anxious little slip of a man until Mary-Beth had screamed. Though, to be fair, he’d been up on the second story of the house, and there hadn’t been much of Kieran _to_ recognize. Under the blood, his face looked like a dried up bowl of Pearson’s worst stew. The blue jacket and poncy little necktie he’d worn had been gone, and the white shirt beneath had been stained red with blood. And, of course, he hadn’t ridden back into camp on his beloved Branwen. Nothing about the… _thing_ atop the strange horse was recognizable as Kieran.

It was their fault for not realizing he was missing earlier, Arthur decided. Half the gang was prone to tormenting the kid as often as they were in camp. Pearson, Grimshaw, and Molly ran the kid ragged with various chores. Besides Mary-Beth, the rest of the camp tended to ignore him, true, but even so, Arthur felt they should have noticed his absence sooner. 

Of course, it was Mary-Beth who first raised the alarm. Asking around if anyone had seen the nervous boot boy. It quickly became the topic of much discussion the longer he was gone.

“The little weasel probably snuck out while we were all sleeping and went back to the O’Driscolls.” Javier plucked a few discordant notes on his guitar as they sat around the fire, discussing the boy’s whereabouts one night. “He’s probably tucked up cosy with Colm by now telling that Irish bastard everything he knows about us.”

Sean, still sporting a thick bandage on the side of his head, hummed low in his throat, accepting the fresh beer that Karen brought him before she sat in his lap. “I dunno, Colom’s an angry, unforgivin’ bleeder.” He argued. “Lookit this feud ‘e’s got with Dutch, eh? We Irish have a long memory, and know how ta hold a grudge. I doubt Colom would forgive that boy for Six-Point Cabin, not unless ‘e delivered Dutch’s head on a silver platter.”

“What about the Pinkertons, then?” Bill had piped up. “Bet that little shit ran off and sold us all out ta try and save his own flea-bitten hide.”

It was a more plausible argument, Arthur thought, except for the presence of Branwen still out in the pasture. Arthur didn’t know much about the lad, but he knew enough to know that if Kieran had abandoned them, he would have taken his precious horse.

“Maybe he fell in the swamp.” Hosea suggested one day, looking grim. “He’s always on the outskirts of camp, trying to stay out of the way of our beloved knuckle-draggers. Might have slipped in and got snapped up before we even heard the commotion.”

Arthur and Hosea set to dredging the lake, looking for any sign of their horse-minder. Charles joined in to help when Hosea's cough began acting up, yet all they found was a rotten boar carcass and some bones far too old to belong to Kieran.

The trouble of it was, by the time Arthur, Charles, Javier, and Lenny started looking in earnest for their squeaky-voiced ex-hostage, several days had passed since he’d last been in camp. No one could pinpoint the exact time he’d disappeared, but several people, Arthur included, agreed he had been at Jack’s impromptu welcome-back party, but couldn’t remember seeing him around the dinner pot the next night. It wasn't until Mary-Beth had been fretting about him and Mrs. Grimshaw had been complaining about the sticky state of the tables (“Where is that damn O’Driscoll boy? How dare he start shirking his chores like you lot? I’ll tan his miserable hide!”) that anyone else had realized Kieran was gone. 

And then, there he was. Riding back into town looking like some ghastly apparition from a child’s worst nightmare. A great big hole in his head, his lips sewn shut.

And those had just been the injuries that they could see on first look.

The first shots had rang out, the horse had reared, and Kieran had fallen lifelessly into the dirt with a thud and a puff of dust, and all hell had broken loose.

In the aftermath, standing over his prone body and discussing Colm, Arthur had said “That man really can hate!” But now, waiting outside the doctor’s office while the surgeon and Swanson fought to save the boy’s life, Arthur thought that this was something far beyond hate. No, this was something much more sinister.

This was evil.

Arthur scowled at himself for such fantastical thoughts, and ground his fifth cigarette out under his heel. 

“Time is it?” He grunted at Charles.

They were seated on the bench outside the quiet office, waiting for news. Micah had disappeared soon after they had arrived, claiming he had better things to do than wait around for the walking corpse to finally bite it. Arthur assumed he’d headed off to a saloon and, frankly, was glad to see the back of him. 

Charles pulled a pocket watch out and consulted it. “After eight.”

So they’d been here three hours. That felt about right. Arthur tapped another cigarette out from his pack and placed it between his lips, then struck a match against his boot and inhaled deeply as he lit the end.

When he settled back against the bench, he noticed Charles side-eyeing him. “Huh?” He grunted.

Charles turned his gaze forward again, watching the passerby on the opposite sidewalk quietly for a moment before he spoke. “He’s going to make it, Arthur.”

Arthur scoffed, and puffed a little harder than necessary on his cigarette. “Shore. Make it into an early grave.”

Charles hummed in response, but was otherwise quiet. 

For some reason, this agitated Arthur. “Even if they do manage to save his life in there Charles, what then, huh?” He scuffed his boot against the sidewalk, scowling. “They blinded’im, disfig’red’im.” He let out a low, grumbling breath. “Even if the kid makes it, his life’s over.”

Charles was looking at him full-on now, his dark, deep eyes seeming to search Arthur’s for something. Arthur scowled back, unsure what Charles would even be searching for. After a moment, though, Charles seemed to give up and faced forward once more. “Maybe,” was his enigmatic answer.

When he didn’t elaborate, Arthur grumbled again. When he spoke, his voice was pitched higher with his agitation. “I mean, come on, Charles! The kid barely made it here. He’s a… weedy li’l thing. He ain’t… tough.”

The look Charles gave Arthur was one he might have called sympathetic. “Arthur, who do you think carries the hay for the horses everyday?” When the outlaw just looked blankly back at him, Charles rolled his eyes. “Not to mention, every time one of the knuckle heads at camp slug him, or shove him, or trip him, or any number of other little cruelties, he picks himself back up and carries right on. He’s not as weak as you all think he is.”

Arthur blinked. “Well… then why’s he… act like all that?”

“He’s not acting.” Charles reached over and took the pack of smokes and matches from Arthur’s pocket, striking the match against the side of the box instead of his boot as Arthur had. “He’s just not fighting back. He’d rather be the low man in the pecking order, than not in it at all.”

“Huh.” Arthur thought on that for a moment, narrowing his eyes at a passing woman who was looking scandalized at the sight of them sharing a bench. She noticed his ire and averted her gaze as she picked up the pace, quickly disappearing around a corner. “Guess that makes sense. Still…”

“Yeah.” Charles agreed. “Still.” They sat in contemplative silence for a while, watching the citizens of Saint Denis pass them by.

“So!” A loud, grating voice called out to them. Scowling once more, Arthur turned to see Micah swaggering up the sidewalk to them, his arms swinging obnoxiously at his sides. “The kid dead yet? Can we go home?”

“Shut up, Micah.” Arthur and Charles spoke in unison, and now it was Micah’s turn to scowl. 

“Oh lighten up, ya maries, or I’m gonna start thinkin’ yer sweet on the little toad.”

“Ya know Micah.” Arthur scratched his chin as he stood, frowning over at the greasy blonde. “This gang, the people in it.” He shook his head, and propped his hands on his hips. “Y’all are like blood ta me. I would gladly take Kieran’s place right now to protect the lives of that family but for you Micah… For you…” He took a step closer, and was glad to see the man was glaring at him, pure hatred in his eyes. “I wouldn’t even piss on ya if you was on fire.” He stepped around Micah close enough that he could butt his shoulder into the other man’s, and strode through the doors to the doctor’s office, intent on heading back to see what was going on, but at that moment, Reverend Swanson backed through the door to the surgical suites, wiping his bloody hands on a rag. There was more blood splattered on his clothing, and a streak of it on his cheek, and Arthur felt the bottom drop out of his gut as he stood there, knowing they had been too slow-

“Well, he’s alive.”

Arthur inhaled sharply and let it blow out of him again, feeling a lightness spread from his stomach to his extremities. “Good work. He awake?”

Swanson looked troubled, and shook his head. “No, and thank the good Lord for that. Hello Mr. Smith.” He added as the door opened behind Arthur again. His expression became more guarded as he saw the third person enter. “Mr. Bell.”

Arthur stepped closer, intentionally angling himself so he blocked Micah from view. “Whadaya mean?”

Swanson gestured for them to follow, and stepped back into the hall. “What I mean is the poor boy woke up in the middle of us trying to save his other eye. He’s lucky we didn’t accidentally gouge it out too, though it was a close thing. Micah, Charles, why don’t you stay out here, this room is a bit small for all of us.” Micah grumbled mutinously under his breath, but Charles merely shrugged and leaned against the wall. 

Arthur stepped inside the recovery room with Swanson, and let out an aggrieved sigh. “Well, shit.”

They’d removed the stitches from his mouth, and had bandaged the upper half of his face, hiding his ruined eyes, but that did nothing to hide the broken state of the rest of his body when Swanson pulled back the thin sheet that had been covering him. 

“Both legs, broken.” They were encased in heavy splints to keep them straight while they healed, and probably to weigh them down if he woke up and started thrashing. “All of his fingers and toes were broken as well. His wrist, here,” Swanson indicated, though it was unnecessary as the wrist in question, Kieran’s right, was heavily splinted. “Sprained. He’s got a dislocated shoulder,” Swanson indicated the deeply bruised left shoulder, and the way the arm was carefully pinned to Kieran’s side with more bandages to keep him from moving it, “burns and lacerations, bruises. Busted ribs, though not broken. And-” He gestured to the ligature marks on Kieran’s neck. “They strangled him, a few times by the look of things. But… Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur looked up to see Swanson peering back at the dor as if to make sure no one was listening. The Reverend shuffled closer as Arthur gruffly asked “What?”

“I can’t be sure, but… Mr. Morgan I don’t think he told them anything.”

Arthur looked at him incredulously. Swanson wrung his hands together, looking from Kieran, to Arthur, to the door. “Huh?”

“I mean it, I don’t think he said anything. But, I think… I think he knows something.” He gestured for Arthur to lean closer, and pointed to the ragged holes in the boy’s lips. “Look, these wounds? I think they’re the oldest. See how they’re all torn and ragged?” He asked, to which Arthur shrugged. “Well, they are. It looks to me like they sewed his mouth shut first, _then_ tortured him. And…” He stood up, wringing his hands together again. “Arthur, when he woke up, he started hollering, trying to warn Dutch about something. I couldn’t get it out of him what we needed to warn Dutch about exactly, but…”

Arthur frowned deeply, and folded his arms. “Colm’s a braggadocious sonuva bitch. He wouldn’t shut up when he had me…” Arthur’s shoulder ached suddenly, and he rolled it to relieve the pressure. “If he did the same thing with Kieran…”

Swanson nodded. “Arthur…” 

Arthur looked at the twitchy preacher, a man nearly as nervous as Kieran, and was intrigued to see just how on edge the man was. He looked like he was about to vibrate right out of his skin, or wring his hands off. “What?”

Swanson took a deep breath. “He said one other thing.”

Arthur blinked, and waited, but Swanson just kept looking anxiously between him, Kieran, and the door. “Spit it out, man.”

“He said ‘he’s lying’.”

Once more, Arthur felt his stomach sink. “Who?”

Swanson shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Morgan. He passed out again before he could say.”

They looked at one another, Arthur’s expression a mixture of disbelief and dawning fury, while Swanson looked mildly terrified. “Reverend… does that…?”

“Mean we have a rat in camp?” Swanson finished, speaking low and quick. “I don’t know, but…” He shrugged helplessly. “Well, Mr. Morgan. There’s been an awful lot of bad luck following us around lately, hasn’t there?”

Blackwater. Cornwall. The agents that found them by Horseshoe... 

Arthur’s hand shot out to grab Swanson’s arm, making the preacher flinch. “Swanson, you don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” Arthur kept his voice low, but firm, staring hard at the other. “You hear me?”

With his hair stuck up in all directions and his eyes as big as they were right now, Swanson looked like a startled cat. “What about Dutch?”

“No one!” Arthur insisted. “You hear me? You don’t say a word ‘til Kieran wakes up ‘n’ we can ask him what he meant. You do, and the boy’s as good as dead.”


	3. Fevered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, Charles, and the reverend discuss what to do with Kieran. Kieran floats in and out of consciousness. Micah is an unrepentant scumbag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, I got so busy today I almost forgot to upload! Sorry for making you guys wait, but here it is! More of our favorite feller Suffering!
> 
> Once again thank you to my amazing beta nerdy-waistoid without whom this fic would be a complete mess.

“Damn.” Charles said the word somewhat breathlessly as he looked down at Kieran’s prone form. “I almost wish I had been wrong…”

“Yeah.” Arthur was seated on the edge of Kieran’s bed, looking down at the poor boy’s face. “He’s gon’ scar somethin’ fierce.”

“This makes John’s scars look like cat scratches.”

“Hah!” Arthur reached out and bumped Charles’ arm. “Be shore ta tell him that fer me, we could all use a laugh back at camp. Laid up fer weeks fer a cat scratch.” Arthur shook his head, still smiling, but he sobered up quickly as he looked back at the unconscious boy. “Kid’s gonna be laid up for a lot longer. Gonna be hard to stay on the move with him-”

“We aren’t leaving him behind, Arthur.” Charles interrupted. “As poorly as he’s treated by the others, he is a part of this gang. He saved your life-”

“I know-”

“He works harder around camp than anyone-”

“I know!” Arthur made a gesture with his hand to cut Charles off. “Dammit, I know, Charles. I ain’t… I ain’t sayin’ we should just dump ‘im. But we got Cornwall and the Pinkertons sniffin’ up our tails, O’Driscolls know where our camp is, we got this Bronte clown on our case now… It’s dangerous enough as is. Charles, look’it’im.” He gestured vaguely towards the broken body on the bed. “We can’t move him all over the damn country like this! That’ll kill him all on its own!”

Charles lowered his head, his expression somber. “Maybe, maybe not. But we can’t abandon him, Arthur. If one of those groups finds him, he’s dead for sure. And the hospital won’t keep him unless he has money, and you know Dutch won’t pay for the ex-O’Driscoll prisoner to be laid up under some fussy nun’s anonymous care.”

Arthur rubbed his chin, then shook his head. “I don’t wanna abandon him, that just ain’t right. But I dunno, Charles…”

“Ch… Charles…”

Both men jerked in surprise and looked down at Kieran as the boy shifted slightly in the bed, his brow furrowing under the bandages, mouth screwed up in pain. Arthur reached up and lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Hey Kieran. You in there, kid?”

Charles made sure the door was closed and locked before hurrying back to the side of the bed, leaning over it as if to further shield Kieran from the world.

Kieran moaned and shifted again, his head turning to one side, away from Arthur’s hand. “Can’t… see…”

Arthur felt a pain in his chest at how… desolate Kieran sounded. “I know, kid. I know. Listen, Kieran, you gotta tell us what you told Colm, okay?”

As soon as the name left Arthur’s lips, he knew he’d said the wrong thing. Immediately, Kieran’s breath stuttered, then began to quicken. He began to move more restlessly on the bed, his head lolling from side to side. “C-Colm… no… no!” He whimpered and lifted his hands weakly towards his face, trying to cover himself as his body tried to curl onto his side. “P-please… no more… no.. please!”

Arthur and Charles tried to coax Kieran into laying flat again, their hands as gentle as possible on his battered body, but that, if anything, only made him fight harder. “Kieran, kid.” Arthur blocked Kieran from pulling at the bandages over his eyes, wrapping his much larger hands over Kieran’s and pulling them down to his thin, bandaged chest. “Easy now, don’t do that. Just calm down, Kieran, yer safe now. Yer safe, kid.”

Kieran let out a heart-wrenching sob and weakly shook his head. “No… no… h-he’ll kill me… please… I don’t want to die… A-Arthur… he-elp me…”

Arthur sighed, looking over at Charles who was trying to keep Kieran from moving his legs without touching the splints. “Go get the doctor or Swanson, get them in here.”

“Right.” Charles ducked out of the room, and was almost immediately replaced by Micah. 

“What’s goin’ on? Oh,” Kieran had let out a horrible wail and began to fight Arthur in earnest now. “He’s alive, huh?” Micah strode closer to the bed, but Arthur was too busy trying to keep Kieran from clawing at the bandages or pitching himself off the bed to pay the blonde asshole any attention. 

“Please… no… no more… please, please-”

“Kieran it’s alright! Yer safe now-”

“Yeah, real safe.” Micah sneered, leaning close to the bed. As his voice grew closer, Kieran let out another desperate cry and tried to flip himself off the other side of the bed. “Jeeze,” There was laughter in his voice as he stood back from the bed when Arthur batted a hand at him. “Wrigglin’ like a worm on a hook.”

Swanson came barging back into the room then, shoving past Micah to grab a case off a nearby table. “Hold him steady Mr. Morgan.” He lifted a lethal-looking syringe and a bottle, inserting the needle into the rubber stopper and filling the chamber with morphine. Arthur leaned over Kieran, wrapping his own arms around Kieran’s trembling body to pin them against his sides. “Here-”

The needle pierced Kieran’s bicep, and the boy whined pitifully, trying to curl up under Arthur. “Shh, hush now kid. Yer okay. Just go back ta sleep.” He felt his chest constrict again at the pitiful sounds Kieran was making, and rubbed one of his large hands in rough circles against Kieran’s back. “Shh, just relax now.” 

“Arthur… Arthur…”

“I’m here kid-”

“Man you lilies are just tuggin’ on mah heartstrings.” Micah sneered. “Truly a beautiful scene-”

“Shut up Micah!” “Please Leave, Mr. Bell!” was the immediate, simultaneous response. The outlaw threw up his hands in surrender and backed out of the room, while Kieran finally went limp in Arthur’s arms.

“That’s it…” Arthur murmured as the door slammed. The sound made Kieran twitch and moan under him, but he was no longer struggling to escape. Tentatively, Arthur lifted the hand that had been rubbing Kieran’s back to push his sweaty hair back from his face, and with a start realized just how warm his skin was. "Shit…" He looked up at Swanson, whose hand quickly replaced Arthur's. His lined face twisted with worry as he felt Kieran's temperature.

“Just sleep now, Mr. Duffy.” Swanson shook his head and moved away to rifle through some cabinets. “Arthur here will keep you safe. Right, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur nodded, even though Kieran couldn’t see it, and picked up the thread. “Yeah, that’s right. Ain’t nobody gonna hurtcha, Kieran. Just rest up.”

Kieran’s quiet sobbing faded into little hiccups, then finally into silence.

\---

“The fact is, we can’t move him today, especially now that he's caught fever.” Swanson insisted. “It was a miracle he survived the trip here. On top of the miracle of surviving what was done to him. I doubt the boy has many miracles left at this point.”

Arthur scuffed his boot against the sidewalk and rubbed the back of his neck. Charles had now picked up Arthur’s anxious chain-smoking, and was working his way through his second cigarette since the tense conversation began. “But we can’t stay here much longer.” He murmured. “I don’t doubt the Pinkertons are here, whether or not they know we are. And Colm knows where our camp is. Then there’s this whole deal with Bronte that Dutch and Hosea have going.”

“Talka’bout a snake in the weeds.” Arthur grumbled. “Don’t know how they’re thinkin’ he’s gonna just let us get away with stealin’ in his kingdom. Sonuva bitch thinks even higher of himself than Dutch.”

“Sure Dutch would love to hear you say that.” Micah scowled at the chorus of “shut up” that greeted him, but mercifully fell silent.

“So how long ‘til we can move him?” Arthur asked.

Swanson held his hands up uselessly, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Morgan. He’s delicate at this stage-”

“Any stage-” Micah mumbled, and was ignored.

“-and I don’t know when he’ll be stable enough to be transported.”

They all stood quietly for a moment, Micah seeming bored and indifferent, his eyes lazily sweeping the crowd. Charles finally spoke up, “When we do move him, we can go slow. Fix him up in the back of the wagon, better this time. Keep him from being jostled.”

Arthur nodded. “We’d have ta go early in the day, make sure we’re off the road by dark.”

“Swanson,” Charles turned to the reverend, who startled a little at being addressed. “Can you steal what you need to take care of him from the doctor here?”

Swanson’s mustache bristled as he looked back at the building, considering. “I suppose. Yes, I have most of what I need back at camp, but there are a few things I could nick for transit.” He looked back at them apprehensively. “Do you really intend to move him today? I strongly advise against it, boys. He barely made it, and if you want to question him-”

Arthur shook his head. “I figure day after tomorrow. We got enough cash on us to stay till then. Charles and Micah, you look around town, see-”

“Now how come I always get the jobs with the-” The sentence was punctuated by a racial epithet.

Charles glared, but Arthur beat him to the punch, anger flashing in his eyes as he jabbed a finger into Micah’s chest. “Watch yer fuckin’ mouth.”

Micah slapped his hand away, scowling. “Watch _yourself_ , big man. You don’t order me around.”

“Then go back to Dutch, ya oil slick bastard. Or shut up, and go see whatchu can see.”

\---

The voices were gone, now. He was all alone.

He was floating, somewhere very hot, his limbs somehow as light as air and leaden simultaneously. He couldn’t feel much of anything, even the pain he thought he must be in if he were still alive, but his head felt as though it were full of a million buzzing bees busy filling his skull with wax and honey since, surely, there was no brain left there to stop them. He could not move, could not speak. Could not, frankly, think. He could only float, aimlessly, through this dark void he’d found himself in.

He didn’t want to be floating here, helpless. He wanted to move, to get away. He was in danger as long as he was stuck laying here like a useless lump of flesh. And, god, why was he so hot?

He had a flash of memory, Arthur’s voice in his ear, the outlaw’s arms wrapped around him, holding him down. He hadn’t felt frightened by Arthur in that moment, but… he hadn’t felt safe. Still, part of him wished, fleetingly, for Arthur to be holding him down again, just so he could feel somewhat grounded. 

He sighed, and turned his head.

“Mr. Duffy?”

Someone had been talking, he suddenly realized, while he had been floating. Someone had been speaking in a low, rough voice, about something familiar… so familiar…

“Mr. Duffy, can you hear me?”

That was… That was Reverend Swanson, right? Yes… it had to be. He felt something touch his face and cringed, trying to turn his head away. 

“It’s alright, Mr. Duffy. You’re safe here. Go back to sleep.”

Kieran whined, rolling his head away finally, and the hand left his cheek. After a moment, he heard the scraping of a chair being adjusted, and reverend Swanson’s voice started up again.

"But you, O Israel, my servant, Jacob, whom I have chosen, you descendants of Abraham my friend, I took you from the ends of the earth, from its farthest corners I called you. I said, `You are my servant'; I have chosen you and have not rejected you. So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. All who rage against you will surely be ashamed and disgraced; those who oppose you will be as nothing and perish. Though you search for your enemies, you will not find them. Those who wage war against you will be as nothing at all. For I am the Lord, your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.”

_Do not fear…_

The next time he surfaced, someone was holding him down again, and he realized that he was struggling against… against what? He was afraid, but of… what? He whimpered and clutched at the arms wrapped around him, trembling from head to toe, as the voice whispered in his ear until he slipped under once more.

On his next journey to the world of the living, those voices kept asking him the same questions, over and over again.

_Can you hear me, son?_

_Can you feel this?_

_What did you tell them?_

He wished they would stop. His head was still buzzing with bees and he was burning up and he was so tired he thought he might sleep for days. He didn’t want to answer their questions, he just wanted to talk to Dutch. He had to warn Dutch and the others before it was too late. Before _he_ made his move.

“Here we go.” He jerked at the feeling of hands sliding under his shoulders and let out a pitiful whine that was quickly shushed. “It’s alright Kieran. It’s Charles, and Swanson.” Oh, that’s why the deep, soothing voice was familiar. “We’re gonna lift you off the bed and put you on a stretcher, okay? Ready, reverend?”

He heard Swanon’s rough voice down near his feet again. “Yes, on three. One, two, three-” 

Kieran groaned as they lifted him off whatever he had been laying on, his aching body bending momentarily before they lowered him down onto what he assumed was the stretcher. He heard Charles apologize to him, the man’s large, calloused hand laying briefly against his pounding, burning forehead. Charles was a good man, Kieran thought dully. Quiet and calm and good. Reverend Swanson was quiet and sad and lonely, until he was drunk, then he was loud and sad and lonely. Still, he felt relieved that they were here: they hadn’t been cruel to him, like so many others in camp. He zoned out, remembering the way he had listened to Swanson read from the bible around the fire one night, soothed from his daily anxieties by the preacher’s scratchy voice. Abruptly, Kieran felt the stretcher being hoisted into the air and experienced an unsettling swooping sensation. His fingers twitched as he tried to grab the edges of the cot to steady himself, but his limbs were not yet responding to his commands, and his fingers felt clumsy and stiff.

“Arthur’s brought the wagon around,” He tuned back in as Charles spoke. “I think we have a good setup, should keep him from rattling around too much.”

“Where…” His voice cracked, and he felt the cot jerk slightly as one of the men carrying it apparently stumbled at his quiet voice. “Where… am I…?” He rasped.

“Saint Denis.” Charles answered after the cot started to move again. “We brought you to the doctor here. We’re heading back to Shady Belle now.”

Kieran groaned and tried to lift a hand to his head. His arm flopped limply against the cot for a moment before he lifted it onto his belly, then, painstakingly, lifted his hand towards his face. “My… my eyes… hurt-”

“Woah, hold on, Kieran.” The cot swayed, one side dipped a bit, and suddenly someone was holding his wrist. “Don’t touch your face, okay? Just lay still till we get you in the wagon, then the reverend will help you go back to sleep, right?”

The sound of a door being opened, accompanied by the sounds and smells of the city beyond. “Yes sir, just hold on son.” Swanson told him. “Just need a moment, and then I’ll give you something.”

Kieran groaned and tilted his head. “Hurts…”

“I know, son. I know, just hang on. Ah! Thank you Mr. Morgan-”

Arthur! Arthur nearby, if he could just tell Arthur what he needed to say- They were talking, moving him. There was so much noise now, and he suddenly felt lost, overwhelmed...

Without warning, the whole world tilted alarmingly: his feet were lifted higher than his head, and he felt himself slipping on the cot. He cried out and tried to grab the sides of the cot, felt it tipping further-

“Easy, Kieran!” Arthur admonished him as hands grabbed his shoulders, holding him steady as the cot was set down and pushed. “Don’t worry, I gotchu-”

Once more, Kieran was seized with a spurt of energy that shocked him. He needed to tell Arthur about the Pinkertons’ plan. “Arthur…”

He felt the wagon sway beneath him, heard a thunk as the outlaw knelt beside him. “What is it kid?”

Kieran twitched his arm, trying to reach out to grab hold of Arthur, to make sure he was heard. “Agents… paid Colm… want… Dutch… w-w-working… with…” His voice trailed off quieter and quieter until by the end of it his lips were moving but no sound was coming out. He felt a hand lay against his chest and shake him lightly, and he wheezed in pain.

“C’mon Kieran,” Arthur’s voice was urgent. “C’mon kid, what’re ya tryin’ ta say? Stay with me, alright? Who’s workin’ with who?”

Kieran’s head rolled listlessly towards Arthur’s voice. He said a name, but it was too quiet to hear, even to his own ears. 

“C’mon Kieran. Louder, boy! What’re ya sayin’?”

The little burst of energy he’d been granted was gone from him, and he felt himself slipping back underwater once more while Arthur cursed overhead. 

“Dammit… go on, rev. Might as well let the kid sleep without any pain…”

There was a sharp prick in his arm a moment later, and then Kieran knew no more.


	4. God's Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to take Kieran home, as much of a home as Shady Belle is. But someone is watching from the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor ill Kieran. I promise he starts getting better soon.

There was someone watching them.

Arthur knew, could feel their gaze prickling on the back of his neck. Someone was watching, waiting. He tried to look around surreptitiously, tried to locate the source of his feelings of unease, but with so many bodies in the street it was hard to pinpoint it.

He vented his frustrations by rearranging the bed they had made Kieran yet again, rolling and re-rolling the moth-eaten blankets he had stolen from someone’s washing line to make a buffer to keep the boy stable during the ride. He huffed, and settled back on his heels, looking down at the pitiful nest, for lack of a better term, that he had built, and wondered how the hell they were going to get Kieran back without battering him around anymore than he already was. 

Shaking his head, he hopped down out of the wagon and headed to the door, thinking he’d ask Charles to do some recon, when he spied the man in question backing towards the door through the window. Arthur hurried to open it for him, and watched as Charles and Swanson carried Kieran out onto the sidewalk on a stretcher. 

“-Ah! Thank you Mr. Morgan. Charles tells me you sent Micah on ahead to let the camp know we were on our way back?”

Arthur nodded and stepped forward to help them lift the stretcher into the wagon. “Figured we’d have a… less eventful ride, if he went on ahead.” There was a grumbling of agreement from the other two men. Charles set the end of the stretcher up on the tailgate, then hauled himself up to finish pulling the stretcher inside. 

In the transition, the stretcher tilted just slightly, but it was apparently enough to unsettle Kieran, who let out a sound of distress and tried to right himself. The sudden movement nearly caused Swanson to drop his side, and Arthur put his free hand on Kieran’s shoulder to try and steady him. “Easy, Kieran!” Swanson swore beside him as he adjusted his grip on the stretcher, and together with Charles they lay the cot down and slid it against the rough wooden slats of the wagon. “Don’t worry, I gotchu-” The boy tilted his head towards Arthur’s voice, and, so weakly he almost didn’t catch it, Kieran said his name. Charles held out a hand and helped Arthur clamber up into the bed, where he knelt down beside Kieran and leaned close. “What is it kid?”

Arthur watched the struggle that passed over Kieran’s face as he tried to get his words out, tried to stay awake long enough to do so. “Agents… paid Colm…” Arthur’s shoulder twinged anew. “Want… Dutch…” That was nothing new though, they were already aware of all of this, and Arthur felt a brief sense of disappointment, then, of anger directed at Colm, the agents, Cornwall, everyone who was chasing them. “W-w-working… with…”

Arthur perked up and leaned closer, but Kieran didn’t continue. His chapped, pale lips were moving, but it was too quiet to hear what he was saying. Arthur pressed a hand to Kieran’s thin chest, ignoring the pained whine and the flash of guilt that it elicited, and shook the boy lightly. “C’mon Kieran. C’mon kid, what’re ya tryin’ ta say?” He shook the boy again. He needed the name, he just needed the goddamn name. But Kieran was slipping, he could tell. “Stay with me, alright? Who’s workin’ with who?” Kieran’s head rolled in a sickening manner that made it look like his skull was detached from his spine, his lips moving again, too quiet to hear. “C’mon Kieran. Louder, boy! What’re ya sayin’?”

“Mr. Morgan-”

“Arthur-”

Arthur swore, watching the little spark of energy drain from Kieran, trying not to feel defeated. “Dammit…” He stood up, staring sadly down at the pathetic image Kieran made, listening to the small, distressed sounds he was making. “Go on, rev. Might as well let the kid sleep without any pain.”

He turned and climbed into the driver’s seat. Behind him, Swanson had climbed up into the bed and was dosing Kieran with more morphine. Charles hopped down to do up the tailgate, then jogged around to climb onto the bench with Arthur. “I think we’re ready, Arthur.” He murmured, unhooking the reins and passing them over with a look that held an entire conversation.

Charles had sensed it too, it seemed. Arthur nodded, and gave the reins a light slap. “Yee-up!”

The pair of beasts they had hitched up in their flight from Shady belle were two young, strong Tennessee Walkers that normally pulled the chuck wagon. Jack had named them Cookie and Squirrel when they’d first been purchased, and the names had stuck. They were good horses, even if their names were not (not that Arthur would ever say anything negative about the names within earshot of Jack. He wasn’t, after all, an asshole like Micah). They plodded along obediently; their slow, sure-footed gait keeping the cart from rattling about too much over the uneven stone streets. 

As the wagon rumbled along, Arthur noticed Charles rubbing his palms restlessly against his thighs. “Yeah…” He kept his voice low, not wanting to alert the reverend, who was currently holding one of Kieran’s hands in both of his, murmuring a quiet prayer. “I felt it too.”

Charles merely nodded.

“Noticed it yesterday too. Someone knows we’re here.” Arthur grumbled, glancing over his shoulder at Kieran and the reverend as Swanson finished his prayer and looked up. He raised his voice enough that Swanson would hear. “He alright?”

The reverend nodded, laying Kieran’s hand down against the blanket nest. “As alright as he possibly could be, given the circumstances. He’s asleep again.”

Arthur nodded, and turned back around to face front, his eyes sweeping the street. “So what’s our play, then?” He murmured. “With those two in the back, if it comes to a fight we’re gonna be in some kinda real trouble.”

Charles rubbed his chin, then nodded. “You won’t be going at more than a walking pace as is. When we get to the edge of town, I’ll hop off. Make like I’m staying behind for something. See if I can follow from a distance and track whoever might be watching us.”

Arthur frowned. “Chances are there’ll be a lotta’v’em.”

Charles nodded. “Yes, but if I can get behind them when they get behind you, I might be able to take them out before they cause a ruckus.”

Arthur sighed. “Don’t like splittin’ up…”

Charles clapped him on the shoulder. “Me either. Why don’t you drop me in the tenements, and I’ll ‘visit’ a friend there.”

“Alright. Just don’t go gettin’ yourself hurt too. Tch…” Arthur shook his head and gave the reins another anxious snap. “First everyone in Blackwater, then Sean gettin’ half his face blasted off by a bullet, now Kieran… seems like everyone’s droppin’ like flies.”

“Yeah, but Sean lived, and so will Kieran, then we’ll all head off on Dutch’s next grand plan. Here, pull over and let me off there.” 

When Charles hopped down, they told the Reverend he had some business in town to attend to. They assuaged the man’s anxieties about brigands and swamp folk by assuring him that Charles would catch up as soon as possible, then said goodbye and headed out into the bayou. 

They didn’t talk much as the wagon creaked and swayed along the muddy paths, the wheels squelching loudly over the wettest parts of the road. In the bed of the wagon, Kieran remained deathly silent, his fingers and lips twitching twice, though he never surfaced fully from his drug-induced stupor. Eventually, Reverend Swanson took up reading to Kieran to pass the time, his rough voice lowered to a soft murmur. Arthur was not a religious man, he could not hear the words anyway, and thus only had the rough timbre of Swanson’s voice to keep him company as he guided the wagon so painstakingly slowly through the swamp.

He barely looked up at the sound of a piercing scream from deep in the swamps. Swanson, however, jerked so violently he caused the whole wagon to shake. “What in the name of the Lord was that?”

“Panther.” Arthur grunted. “Ain’t usually out this early though…” He gave the reins another tap, spurring the horses to move a little faster. “Might be young, havin’ a hard time huntin’.”

Swanson sputtered nervously in the bed of the wagon, his head now swiveling around as he looked for any sign of the big, black cats. "Oh… where is Charles?” Arthur heard him mumble. “Panthers! I hate the swamp…”

Arthur chuckled. “Oh come on now, preacher. This is God’s country!”

“Well he should sell it.”

Arthur barked out a laugh at that, and heard a faint voice behind him groan, “No…”

He jerked on the reins, drawing the wagon to a halt and jerked around in his seat in time to see Kieran trying to roll out of his bed, though he was being held in place by Swanson. “Hush now, son, you’re safe.”

“Safe…”

“That’s right, Kieran.” Arthur turned himself fully, reaching out to lay his hand on Kieran's splinted foot. The boy flinched away. “It’s Arthur, Kieran. Arthur and Reverend Swanson.” Kieran whimpered, but fell still, mumbling something under his breath that Arthur couldn't catch. 

“Sell… sold... he’s… rat… sold… Dutch out…” Arthur and Swanson looked sharply at one another before Arthur removed his hand and scrambled into the back of the wagon to kneel by Kieran.

He slid a hand under the boy’s head, ignoring Swanson’s protests, and carefully lifted Kieran into a semi-sitting position. Kieran groaned, what was visible of his face twisting in pain as he was lifted. “Kieran, listen ta me:” Arthur propped the boy up against his knee. “Kieran, I need to know who it is.” Kieran responded with a horrible, drawn-out sound halfway between a whine and a moan that tore at Arthur’s conscience. He carefully laid the boy out again, noticing the way he was trembling. “Kieran, come on.” He cupped Kieran’s least discolored cheek. “Tell me, kid.”

Kieran’s neck arched, and he let out a horrible gurgling sound. Swanson shoved Arthur’s hand away and tipped Kieran onto his side just as a fount of bile was expelled from his mouth all over the reverend’s lap. Kieran began to shiver, his voice reduced to exhausted sobs. 

Arthur sighed, his large hand pressing between Kieran’s shoulder blades, rubbing the sweat-soaked bandages. “It’s okay kid, it’s alright.”

The wagon lurched suddenly, and Arthur had his pistol in his hand half a second later, snapping around with his free hand outstretched towards his passengers, only to find Charles climbing into the driver’s seat. “We need to get him back, fast.” His voice was as steady as ever, but there was an undercurrent of urgency as he took up the reins and gave them a slap. The horses tossed their heads and resumed their slow plod through the mud while Arthur settled down into the wagon bed to help Swanson roll Kieran onto his back once more. While the reverend wiped himself down, Arthur used his own handkerchief to wipe Kieran’s mouth clean. He took his canteen from his hip and slid his hand under Kieran’s head again. He didn’t lift the boy this time, just tilted his head up slightly so that he could pour a thin trickle of water into Kieran’s slack mouth. The young man sputtered for a moment before his throat began to constrict properly in order to swallow the liquid. 

When Arthur took away the canteen, Kieran whined so pitifully he almost relented. “Not too fast now, not till we get back.”

Kieran groaned, turning his head towards Arthur and whimpering.

Arthur felt that strange constriction in his chest again; he realized he didn’t just pity Kieran, he felt… guilty. Guilty, and sad, and angry. He gave Kieran another drink, then lay him back down and capped the canteen. With Charles manning the reins, he remained in the back with Kieran and Swanson, and found himself stroking a few sweaty strands of hair away from Kieran’s face. 

Swanson, leaning back against the head of the wagon, watched him quietly. “Mr. Morgan…”

Arthur grunted in acknowledgement. 

Swanson glanced up at Charles, then lowered his gaze back to Arthur. “Mr. Morgan, I… am concerned. About the boy’s safety when we get back to camp.”

Arthur nodded. “I know. I know, we’ll just… we’ll have to watch’im. Carefully. That’s all we can do until he wakes up, and tells us who the rat is.”

Above them, Charles made a disgruntled sort of sound. 

Arthur looked up at him wearily. “What?”

Charles turned, peering down at Arthur with his dark, knowing eyes. “I’m sure you have an idea already.”

Arthur’s expression turned sour, and his hand fell reflexively to the hilt of his revolver. “Oh yes.” He grumbled. “Yes I do.”


End file.
